


Like a Dagger to the Heart

by hxllowsandhorcruxes



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst, Bellatrix Lestrange - Freeform, Blood, Book 7: Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Character Death, Cutting, Daggers, Dark Lord Harry Potter, Death, Dobby - Freeform, Draco Malfoy - Freeform, F/M, Forbidden Love, Good Draco Malfoy, Graphic Description, Harm, Harry Potter - Freeform, Hate to Love, Love, Lucius Malfoy - Freeform, Magic, Malfoy Manor (Harry Potter), Narcissa Malfoy - Freeform, Not Canon Compliant - Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Pining Draco Malfoy, Please Don't Hate Me, Redeemed Draco Malfoy, Redemption, Scars, The Deathly Hallows, Torture, Voilence, Wands, hermione granger - Freeform, ron weasley - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-01-14
Packaged: 2021-03-18 15:13:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,102
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28745289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hxllowsandhorcruxes/pseuds/hxllowsandhorcruxes
Summary: Dobby isn't the one to save the Golden Trio this time. Now, it's Draco's turn, and he does it all for that brown eyed girl that he just can't seem to hate. And anything, he realizes — even death — is worth it, as long as she makes it out okay.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy
Comments: 6
Kudos: 73





	Like a Dagger to the Heart

Draco Malfoy doesn't want to be thinking about her. 

Not now. Not ever. And especially not as he hears her voice echoing through the foyer of his home, her tone high pitched and panicked, almost like she's in some sort of struggle. And he hates that his first reaction to hearing it is deep, gut wrenching concern. 

No, not concern. He's not concerned for Hermione Granger. He's just...uneasy. Yes, that's it. Uneasy, because she's come into his home at all. She shouldn't be here. Ever. And the fact that she is, with her voice growing louder and louder as the minutes drag on, only makes him feel worse and worse. And that feeling only multiples — quadruples, even, as the door to his room snaps open, and his father's pale, nearly sickly looking face meets his gaze. 

He's been looking even worse than usual lately, his father. Not like he used to. Back when Draco was younger, his father had always made some sort of effort to look composed. More than presentable. Like royalty. Because that what he thought he and his family were. Royalty. He'd told Draco ever since he was little — "We possess something that others can only dream of holding, son. Pure, untainted magical blood. And the Malfoy name. Remember, Draco. Being a Malfoy is a gift, and I expect you to cherish it."

Cherish it. 

Draco has always tried, as hard as he possibly can, to do just what his father had told him. Cherish it. Cherish his last name. Cherish its legacy, and its implications. He's a pureblood. And people like Hermione Granger — like Potter's dead mother — and so many others — they don't have what Draco has. They aren't pure. They're tainted. Dirty. And he hates them. 

Almost as much as he hates the way his father is standing in his doorway now, with his once gray-blue eyes turned widened and bloodshot. His hair is tangled, falling in wavy mats over his shoulders and caked with what looks like grease and soot from the fireplace. He can smell him, even from all the way across the room. He wonders how long it's been since he showered. 

"I'm sure you've heard the commotion downstairs," His voice comes out in the way it always does. Smoothly, with a sort of dignified tone to it. Even when he's been trapped in Azkaban for the past year, he's still managed to hold onto his holier-than-thou way of speaking. His nose tilts up slightly as he addresses his son. "We need you to come join us. The Snatchers have caught them."

"Caught who?" Draco keeps his expression blank. Doesn't let even the slightest flicker of dread flash behind his eyes. Because the truth is, that he's always feared his father. And that fear has only intensified after he's returned from prison with much more ragged edges.

"The Weasley boy, Potter's Mudblood, and...possibly Potter."

Draco sneers. "What does that mean, 'possibly'?"

"It seems that someone has bewitched his face." Lucius sighs, "Or so we assume. He looks...strange."

"And what do you need me for?" Draco's stomach is twisting. Painfully. Just like it always does when his father asks something of him. And when he fails nearly every time. 

"We need you to identify him." Lucius thins his eyes, "If we summon the Dark Lord, and he's not who we think he is, we will all pay." He pauses, his jaw tightening. "Dearly."

"What makes you think I'll be able to—"

"You've gone to school with him for six years." His father snaps, "If you can't identify him, no one can."

When he sees the three of them in the nearly empty drawing room, he tries his best to appear unaffected. Like he should be. He shouldn't notice that his heart rate quickens as his eyes lock with hers. That she freezes, as if the sight of him outside of Hogwarts is something she isn't prepared for. And he feels the same. But in all honesty, he's never prepared to see her. To look at her. Really look at her, the way he's always wanted but won't allow himself to. 

To stare into her chocolate brown eyes. To swim in them. Explore their depths. Hang on to the tiny flecks of gold that seem to shine in her irises. 

To admire her face. The sharp definition of her jawline, that's also soft and kind at the same time. The perfect arch of her nose. That mane of curly brown hair that he's always wondered about the texture of. Wondered what it would feel like to touch it. Tug it. Twist it around his fingertips. Brush it out of her face and rest his palms against the side of her head. Just hold her there. 

He shakes his head. Jerks it to the side. Pops his neck and shoves the thought of her to the back of his mind, where it usually lives, trapped in a tightly sealed box of occlumency. He doesn't let himself consider it very often. After all, the more time he spends thinking about her, the more he'll start to see her as more than just a Mudblood. More than someone he's been trained to hate. To despise. 

And no, he doesn't want that. Just like he doesn't want her. And even if he does, he'll never have her. Because even if he caved — let himself throw caution to the wind and approach her without an insult cocked and loaded for once, he's sure that she would never even entertain the idea of them together. Not even as friends. Because one thing he's even more sure of than his instructed hatred for Hermione Granger, is that she hates him equally as much. Maybe even more. 

And the way she's glaring at him now confirms it. Solidifies it in his mind. She hates him. And he hates her. Yes, he hates her. Maybe if he repeats it enough times, he'll believe it. 

He's looking down at someone now. Someone with a mangled, deformed kind of face, and Draco sneers, his lips pulled into a deep frown.

The person is panting. Groaning in pain as Bellatrix forces his head backwards, his face pointing up towards Draco to give him a better view. And yes, he knows immediately that it's Potter. He can just tell. And he knows that voice, too. But he keeps his expression blank. Or, if anything, confused. 

"Well?" Bellatrix hisses, her voice so shrill that it makes Draco's hand flinch by his side. 

He weighs his options in his mind before responding shortly. "I can't be sure."

"Draco," He hears his father whisper, and before he can turn around to face him, his clammy, cold hand is clamped around the back of his neck. Draco strains. Tries to pull away. But it's useless. He's not letting go. "Look closely, son." He can smell his foul stench right next to his nose. "If we are the ones to hand Potter over to the Dark Lord...everything will be forgiven. All will be as it was. Understand?" He's moved around him now, to stand directly in front of his face. In a position where he's forced to stare him in the eyes. They're even more bloodshot up close. 

Draco nods weakly. He can feel sweat beading at his hairline, and underneath the collar of his suit, which feels tighter now then it did upstairs. Like a noose. 

"Now, we won't be forgetting who actually caught him," A voice comes from behind them. It's one Draco doesn't recognize. Most likely one of the Snatchers. "I hope, Mr. Malfoy."

"You dare to TALK TO ME LIKE THAT IN MY OWN HOUSE?" His father's voice raises like the wave of a tsunami, and Draco flinches away before his mother approaches from behind, hissing. 

"Lucius."

Then they're both gone, sinking back towards the wall and leaving Draco standing alone. Somehow, he feels more alone than he has in years. 

"Don't be shy, sweetie," Bellatrix grabs his hand. Too tightly. It's like she's trying to squeeze all the blood out of his veins. "Come over."

She forces him to kneel down. To get right up near Potter's face and stare at him. Draco can see every pore of his skin. Every swollen lump from whatever spell someone's hit him with. His usually green eyes are sealed shut almost completely, and Draco is half glad. Because if they'd been open, he isn't sure that he'd be able to stomach what he's having to do. 

"Now," Bellatrix continues, "if this isn't who we think it is, Draco, and we call him, he'll kill us all. We need to be absolutely sure..."

Draco barely hears her. He's too busy trying to guess what Potter's thinking. Does he think he's going to turn him in? Surely, he does. Why wouldn't he? Draco's given him no reason to believe that he wouldn't. And as he stares at him, even Draco is confused as to why he's hesitating. Because he hates Harry Potter, even more than he hates Hermione Granger. There's no real reason for him to want to spare him, but somehow...

Draco swallows. Hard. Feels a bead of sweat travel down his temple. "What's wrong with his face?"

"Yes, what if wrong with his face?" Bellatrix adds. 

"He came to us like that." The Snatcher responds, "Something he picked up in the forest, I reckon."

"Ran into a stinging jinx..." There's a moment's hesitation before Bellatrix's wand is pointing towards someone. "Was it you, dear?"

And he realizes with a strange, sickening feeling that she's pointing straight at Hermione. Draco tries his hardest not to let his eyes wander too far from Potter. But they disobey him. They wander, and now he wants to look back over his shoulder. 

"Give me her wand." Bellatrix continues, walking towards her. "We'll see what her last spell was."

Another twist of his stomach, and he wants to look back at her even more now, which he's finally able to do as his mother taps lightly on his shoulder, drawing his attention away from Harry's mangled face. Bellatrix laughs. Mumbles something like "got you" before suddenly gasping, her words cutting off completely. Because as she stares at one of the Snatchers, standing near the back of the room, she seems to spot something. Something that makes her whisper "what is that?" in disbelief. She shakes her head barely. "Where'd you get that from?"

It's a sword. A long, shiny silver sword. Draco just stares at it. He's not sure what it means to her, or why she looks so stunned to see it, but he figures it must be of some importance.

"It was in her bag when we searched her." The Snatcher responds dryly. "I reckon it's mine now."

There's barely a second's delay before Bellatrix's arm is swinging, her wand flicking towards the man as he flies backwards. And the sword is suddenly in her hands as she attacks the other Snatchers, finishing them off one by one until they're gagging and gasping on the floor, a noose tied tightly around the leader's neck. Then she finally releases them, gesturing widely as she backs towards Draco.

"GO!" She demands, her voice hoarse and terrifying. "GET OUT!"

The Snatchers stumble away, still struggling to recover, but Bellatix doesn't pay them any more attention, rushing over to where Hermione and Ron are standing against the wall, guarded by Draco's mother.

"Cissy," She whispers, "Put the boys in the cellar! I want to have a little conversation with this one." She's directly in front of Hermione's face now as Ron and Harry are dragged away. Draco feels a horrible pit settle in his stomach. "Girl to girl!"

Everything seems to move in slow motion as he watches. Every flinch. Every desperate, agony-filled scream. Every time Hermione writhes and twitches underneath Bellatrix's grasp, her mouth hanging open in a sob. And Draco is left standing near the side of the room, his eyes wide and unblinking as the scene plays out before him. 

"That sword is meant to be in my vault at Gringotts, how did you get it?" Bellatrix is whispering, so close to Granger's face that they're almost touching. And Hermione is sobbing. Gasping. Muttering pleas incoherently as Bellatrix's voice begins to raise. "What else did you and your friends TAKE FROM MY VAULT?"

"I didn't take anything—" Hermione chokes out. "Please...I didn't take anything—"

"I don't believe it." And then she's shifting on top of her. Moving to Hermione's pinned down forearm and drawing out a blade that catches Draco's eye like a flash of light. And before he can even prepare himself for what's about to happen, it's cutting. Slicing deep into the flesh on Hermione's arm and dragging slowly until she's screaming so loudly that her voice echoes off the walls of the manor. Drives into Draco's eardrums and rings like an alarm.

He has to resist the urge to look away. To cover his ears. To get out of the house and run far, far away. Because the more she writhes, and screams, and sobs until her body goes limp, the more Draco feels like he's about to pass out. And the more his father's eyes thin on him from the doorway. 

There's a bloody, dripping word carved into Hermione's arm by the time Bellatrix finally decides she's satisfied, climbing off her thin, weakened frame and standing with the red-drenched knife still in her hand. He can't read it from his distance, but he can tell it starts with an 'M'. The letters are slanted. Sloppy. 

"Draco," His aunt suddenly turns to him, and he snaps his gaze in her direction, feeling slightly dizzy as his head moves. Her eyes are cold as he meets them, and he really wishes that he could look away. He's always hated looking at Bellatrix. Hated being around her, too. Every time she steps into a room, it seems to grow colder. Like even the air tries to run from her. "Get out your wand."

He blinks for a moment before reaching into his pocket, slipping his smooth brown and black wand out of his jacket. It slides underneath his fingertips. Curls into his palm until he's gripping it tightly. 

"Good..." Bellatrix smiles, "Now...I want you do something for me."

Draco swallows again. Harder this time. 

"And that is?"

"Preform the Cruciatus Curse." She says simply, "On little Ms. Granger, here."

In an instant, Draco feels as if the ground has dropped out from underneath him. His throat bobs, and he tries his absolute hardest to keep his expression blank. Because Bellatrix is staring straight at him, and she's smiling. A cruel, crooked kind of smile that makes him want to vomit. But instead, he only steps forward, drawing in a deep breath and looking down at Hermione on the floor in front of him. 

She's barely even conscious, he tells himself. She's may not even process what's happening. 

But he knows deep down that those brown eyes of hers can still see. And they're looking right at him, wide and horrified as he grows closer, his wand raising from his side. 

"For how long?" He chokes out. 

Bellatrix shrugs. "Until I tell you you can stop."

His heart is beating too quickly. Slamming. Threatening to crack out of his ribcage. And his hands shake like they never have before as he forms the word in his mind. Just say it — he tells himself. This is what you've been trained for. This is what you want to do.

You don't care about Hermione Granger. 

You don't care about Hermione Granger. 

You don't—

"Crucio."

Nothing. 

"Crucio." He says again, his voice somewhat pinched as he realizes that Bellatrix's face has gone white with shock. And maybe anger. 

"Crucio." He tries one more time, in a whisper. And again, nothing. Bellatrix draws in a quick breath. 

"You have to mean it, Draco." She creeps towards him, slowly extending her hand as if to ask for his wand. And he doesn't meet her eyes as he hands it to her, feeling emptier than he has in a long, long time. "Let me demonstrate..."

"Crucio."

The spell shoots out of his wand in an invisible stream, striking Hermione's body like a bolt of lightning and exploding through her nerves. He can see it happening, the instant agony that overtakes her, her mouth cracking open in a horrible, high pitched scream that pierces his eardrums like a knife. And she's writhing now, even worse than when Bellatrix had used the dagger, sobbing and wailing and twitching as the seconds drag on and on. Draco doesn't know how long it continues for. Doesn't know how quickly he fades out of reality, and detaches from the scene playing out in front of him, because it just happens without him having to try. 

Suddenly, there's no more screaming, or crying, or horrible, awful sounds that will haunt him for the rest of his life. Stick in his nightmares and seep through his happiest memories, however fleeting those may be. Now, there's only quiet. Only the backs of his eyelids as he squeezes them shut tightly. His fists are aching from how long he's had them balled. 

"I suppose that's enough." Bellatrix's voice snaps him out of it, and he instantly looks back towards Hermione's body as Bellatrix drops his wand, seeming to have grown bored with the sight of her agony. "Your wand." She slips it back into his hand, though as he grips it, it feels different than usual. Almost...uncomfortable. Like it doesn't really belong to him anymore. His eye twitches. 

Hermione lies limp on the floor, her eyes wide open and unblinking. She looks dead. And he can barely tell the difference between her and an actual corpse, except for the fact that every few seconds, her muscles twitch. Twinge. Cramp from the aftershocks of the cruse. And watching her lay there feels like a dagger to the heart.

"Wormtail!" Bellatrix's voice raises, and the short, round man emerges from the shadows, cowering. "Bring me the Goblin. The girl is useless."

"Yes, Miss Lestrange." He nods. "Yes, right away."

He returns from the cellar a few moments later, bringing the short, frowning Goblin with him and tossing him in front of Bellatrix. She interrogates him, too. It's far less gruesome than Hermione's treatment had been, and he escapes with a slash on his cheek, red blood seeping from the thin gash. 

He's denying that he knows anything again as Bellatrix tells him to "consider himself lucky" before creeping back towards Hermione's limp figure on the floor. "The same won't be said for this one..." She whispers, and before another second can pass the sight of a flash of red hair catches in the side of Draco's eye. 

"Expelliamus!" Ron's voice explodes from the staircase, and he's lunging forward into the room as Bellatrix spins to face him. His father begins to draw his wand, but Potter is quicker, spitting out "Stupefy" and blasting him backwards into the wall. Draco's wand is drawn in a flash, and he's casting defensive spell after defensive spell to guard himself as Potter and Weasley advance on them, their faces wild with rage. But suddenly, it all stops as quickly as it began, someone's voice coming from the back of the room. 

"Stop!" They exclaim, and Draco turns around to find Bellatrix with Hermione trapped against her chest, her dragger pressed to her neck. She's trembling, whimpering softly as Bellatrix demands for Harry and Ron to drop their wands. They comply. 

"Pick them up, Draco. Now." Bellatrix hisses as Draco hurries forward and collects the two wands, holding them tightly in his grip. 

"Well, well, well...look what we have here." His aunt smiles sickly, "It's Harry Potter. He's all bright and shiny and new again...Just in time for the Dark Lord..."

Draco's insides twist. Clench. Crumple at the mention of his name. 

"Call him." Bellatrix smiles, and it only occurs to Draco after a long moment that she's looking at him. But somehow, he can't bring himself to pull up his sleeve, or even move at all. He's frozen completely, gripping Harry and Ron's wands so tightly that he wonders if they might snap. 

"Call him!" His aunt repeats, and as Draco still fails to move, his father steps forward. With a sharp yank, he pulls up his sleeve, revealing the Dark Mark seared into his skin as he sneers towards Potter. His other hand extends, ready to preform the summoning. But suddenly, he stops. 

Because there's a strange squeaking sound coming from the ceiling. And as Draco looks up slowly, his neck feeling locked in place, he sees it. 

Dobby. 

He's seated on top of the crystal chandelier above them, slowly twisting the metal couplet that holds it to the ceiling. And in a moment that makes Draco's heart skip several beats, it snaps, quickly falling towards the ground and shattering in a million tiny shards. Bellatrix screams as it descends towards her, throwing Hermione forward and narrowly avoiding its weight as it crashes. Granger lands weakly in Ron's arms as they stumble backwards, and Draco is left staring, completely at a loss for what he's supposed to do. 

He knows what he wants to do. That's not a question. He's known what he's wanted to do ever since the torture began. But now, as the room descends into chaos, it seems there's an opening. A chance. He's holding onto the side of a chair as Potter suddenly approaches him, reaching forward and trying to yank his wand out of his hand. They struggle for a moment before Draco gives up. Gives in. Lets him have the wands he's holding, including his own. 

After all, if what he's thinking about works, he won't need it anyway. 

It's a strange feeling, making the decision. Because he knows exactly what it means. No more parents. No more Hogwarts. No more of the life he's always known. He'll have to go into hiding. Change his name. Maybe even pretend to be a muggle. Certainly, he'll have to disappear completely for a few years. At least until the Dark Lord stops searching for him. Or maybe he won't even last that long. Maybe he'll find him tomorrow, or the day after that....

But it doesn't matter. None of it matters. He just can't stay here. Can't do this anymore.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, Dobby, and the Goblin are all standing on the other side of the room as Bellatrix finally recovers from the chandelier's crashing. 

"Stupid elf!" She cries, "You could have killed me!"

"Dobby never meant to kill!" The elf responds, "He only meant to maim, or seriously injure..."

His mother raises her wand, but in a snap, she's been disarmed, her wand flying into Dobby's small hand. 

"HOW DARE YOU TAKE A WITCHES WAND?" His aunt screeches, "HOW DARE YOU DEFY YOUR MASTERS?"

"Dobby has no master." The elf straightens his spine. "Dobby is a free elf. And Dobby has come to save Harry Potter, and his friends!"

It all happens in a flash. Hermione is reaching for the her friends. Dobby is in the center of them, preparing to apparate. And Bellatrix is grabbing something, something that catches Draco's eye in the same way as before. Like a flash of light. A shimmer of metal. 

She has the dagger, and she's raising it. Aiming it towards the group on the other side of the room and suddenly chucking it towards the center of them, her aim impeccable as it flies in their direction. 

And that's when he realizes. The moment moves in slow motion as he churns it over in his mind. 

He knows exactly what he has to do. 

Because the knife is headed straight for Hermione, and before Draco can second guess his decision, he's moving. Moving out into the center of the room and backing towards Potter and the rest of them. And then he feels it, the pull of apparation as he connects with someone behind him. He isn't sure of who. And the magic has swallowed him whole a moment later, throwing him into a twisting, tugging whirlpool that he's felt a million times before, but will never quite get used to. 

It yanks at his insides. Pulls at his skin. Twists his senses and makes him feel as if his body is being split in multiple directions. 

But it's over a moment later, and he's suddenly dumped on the ground of a place he doesn't know, his limbs sprawled out as he gasps for air. It only occurs to him that he's laying in water as it laps at the side of his face, the salty droplets seeping into his clothes and drenching him in cold, shiver-inducing dampness. But that's not just it. There's something else. Something else that makes his breath catch for too long in his throat, his entire body freezing with the horrible, sickening realization. 

That he's found the dagger. 

And it's buried deep in the center of his chest. 

He can barely breathe. Can't sit up. Can't do anything except just stare at it, and feel the terrifying realization wash over him. Settle into every part of his brain. Overwhelm his thoughts with the color of the bight red blood seeping from the deep puncture wound in his chest, lodged between two of his ribs and stabbing at what he assumes is one of his lungs. Because breathing is getting harder and harder by the second, almost as if his airway itself is filling with blood. 

He barely even processes that there are voices speaking around him until someone's hand slips underneath the back of his head, lifting him out of the water with a careful, gentle movement.

"Malfoy—" It's Hermione. He knows instantly. He would recognize that voice anywhere. That face, as his eyes flutter up to look at her. And when he sees her expression, the pain in his chest only doubles. Because she's...she's crying. It's such a strange, unusual sight that he blinks a few times to make sure he's seeing it correctly. But he is. She's crying, and she's pulling him into her lap as sand and water cling to his suit. "Malfoy — just hold on, okay? We're going to help you."

The words are barely registering in his mind. He knows she's speaking to him. She's saying something...it's just...he's lost so much blood...

"Ron, give me my bag!" Hermione cries, her expression twisted in pain. Why is she in pain? — Draco's mind whispers. He saved her. She's safe...She's safe now...

The air seems to be growing colder around him. Like it's swallowing him in a chill. Or maybe it's just the water. Maybe...

"My bag!" She repeats, her voice strangled through the tears. 

"I don't have it." Ron shakes his head. He looks numb. Kind of gray. 

"Harry?" She croaks. He shakes his head, wordless. 

"Fuck—" She's gasping, her hands yanking at the fabric of Draco's suit, attempting to pull it away from the wound. He's never heard her curse before. It sounds funny coming out of her mouth...

"I'm trying." She meets his eyes suddenly, and he feels some sort of warmth bloom in his chest. Deeper than the wound. It's not from that. It's...something else. "I'm trying, I swear—"

"Granger." Draco forces out, using every bit of energy left in him to utter the word. His voice sounds different then it usually does. Less sharp. More muted. Slurred. "It's alright."

"No." She shakes her head, "No, I can fix this—"

"You don't need to." He whispers. Winces as his breath hitches in his chest. It's getting less painful now. Beginning to fade away...

"Just stay with me," She grabs the sides of his face suddenly, drawing in a ragged, gasping breath. "Stay with me—"

It's a sensation he never thought he would experience, having her hands touching him like this. Not in a punch, or a slap. But in a gentle, careful kind of way. He can feel the heat from her fingertips against his face. The softness of her skin. And Draco only stares. Blinks up at her to try and absorb all the parts of her face he's never allowed himself to appreciate before. And he can't believe how stupid he's been all these years, keeping himself from her. Letting himself be tricked into hating someone so...beautiful. 

He sees it now. How beautiful she is. And he supposes that he's always seen it, if he's honest. But he's never let himself think about it before. Really think about it. 

"I'm sorry, Granger." He whispers, feeling his legs go numb. His arms are next. "For everything I've ever done to y — you."

"It's okay." She says quickly, offering him a weak smile as her thumb ghosts over his cheek. He feels colder now. Even the warmth from her hand isn't helping. "It's okay, Draco."

Draco. 

He's not sure if he's ever heard her say his name before. But it sounds nice. So nice with her voice...

"Granger," He winces as a streak of pain shoots through his chest. There's more blood staining his shirt. "I — h — have favor to ask of you."

"Yes," She nods, "yes, anything."

"Don't die." He chokes. There's blood in his throat now. He can taste it. "Please, don't d — die."

"I won't." She brushes her hand across his forehead. He feels pieces of his hair unstick from his skin, drenched with water. "I promise, I won't."

"I'll hold you to that," He whispers, feeling a small smile cross his lips. His eyes are closing halfway now. It's so tiring to keep them open, even though he wants to keep looking at her. He wishes he could look at her forever. He's wasted so much time trying not to... "D — don't want to have to come back and h — haunt you to make sure you st — stay safe."

"I won't die." She repeats, and he can feel her shaking. "I promise. I promise, I won't..."

"Good." He stares up at her as her face starts to go blurry. But that's okay. As long as he knows she's still there. "Good..."

Her hands are warm. 

That's the last thing he thinks about as the world starts to go dark. Starts to tilt sideways and pull apart like he's apparating again.

Her hands are warm, and she's still crying.

He hopes she stops soon. 

He doesn't suppose he's worth crying over for too long.


End file.
